


The Silver (working title)

by blacktea



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sorting (Harry Potter), Bullying, F/M, Gen, Ravenclaw Draco, not a comedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-07
Updated: 2015-01-19
Packaged: 2018-02-28 10:59:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2729921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blacktea/pseuds/blacktea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco Malfoy gets sorted into Ravenclaw and it really shouldn't be the end of the world, but it kind of is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. September 1991

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this story has been brewing on my computer for a while. I don't have it finished, but I'm by posting I can motivate myself to get it finished. I do know exactly how it's going to end.
> 
> Anyways I hope you enjoy it. I've never written anything quite like it.

Blue.

"...who would have thought..."

His tie was-

"...was a Death Eater..."

-blue and bronze and blue. He was-

"...to Azkaban, but no he..."

-a Ravenclaw. How-

"...nothing good can come from being that rich."

His mental fog cleared as the whispers around him grew more vicious. The older boy sitting across from him was glaring at him, his eyes boiling with something Draco couldn't name. Was that what hate looked like? No one had ever hated him before (at least he hadn't noticed). He was a pureblood. He was a Malfoy. His father said-

His father wasn't there. 

"Your father is a lying, murdering git."

Draco couldn't stop his eyes his eyes from widening in alarm. "My father-

"Is a murderer. He killed people, tortured them."

Draco couldn't process the boy's words. His father told him how to be. His father sometimes held his mother's hand (even in public). His father sometimes smiled just for him and tousled his hair (in front of people).

What did this boy know about his father? He was probably a muggle-born. Mudblood, he could hear his father's icy tones, there was no room for politeness when dealing with the impure. Though his mother had almost made to frown.

"What's it to you?" he snapped, his voice only shook a little. He wasn't brave, but he was mean. Just like his parents showed him: cold, pure, mean. 

(But all he was was scared and alone and blue.)

The boy's eyes grew hotter and Draco wished he wasn't too proud to look away. "Death eaters killed my dad and they raped my mom."

Rape? What did that even mean? His mother had mentioned it once, but she hadn't known he could hear and she been whispering so quietly and she hadn't seen him listening and- "It wasn't him." His father wasn't bad. He was a Malfoy; and Malfoys weren't bad. "It wasn't." Draco didn't believe in God or fate, but he believed in his father. Sometimes his father said things (cold things, dark things, bad things). But that didn't matter. (Didn't, didn't, didn't.)

The boy just smiled, but it wasn't a nice smile. Of course, Draco had seen them before (mean smiles). He had one (his father's was better, his mother's the best). But no one had ever used one on him. He didn't like it.

"Knock it off, Adam," the girl next to the boy (Adam) snapped, disrupting the anger (the hatred) coming off the boy in waves.

Adam scowled at the girl. "Why should I? I'd hate to give him the impression that he's welcome here." He'd hate to. (Hate, hate, hate to.)

The girl absently flicked some her brown-red hair out of her face. "That's all well and good, but he's still a little kid. If you go around saying those kinds of things to him and he tells," sharp pause, "We could lose points or get detention."

Adam's jaw clenched as he swung his gaze back to Draco, his eyes narrowing, "Malfoy, wouldn't lose his own house points, Autumn. He wouldn't want to get us detention. Isn't that right, Malfoy. You wouldn't do that." But he said Malfoy all wrong. It wasn't supposed to sound like that (like it should be whispered, or not said at all).

Draco reminded himself to breathe and shook his head as calmly as he could. This boy, Adam, could get to him where he slept. He'd best try to appease him.

"I dunno, Adam," the boy on Adam's right said with a thoughtful expression. "What if he tells his parents?" The boy had dirty blond hair and a kind face, but his eyes were cold.

Draco swallowed nervously. He had been considering that, but he could tell by the darkening of Adam's face that it would not be allowed.

Adam laughed. The sound was small and vicious. He'd heard a laugh like that once. He'd been small and there were lots of people talking and talking and his mother crying, saying, 'Oh Bella' while his father said nothing and- "Well, I'm sure Draco will allow us to see all his letters before he owls them off. To proofread them. First years have such trouble with grammar and spelling and articulating things." Adam pinned him with a piercing stare (his eyes were blue, blue, blue). Draco nodded his agreement. He didn't have a choice.

There was no one to help him. He could feel all the stares full of anger and malice and cool, cold disinterest, but there was no hope. He wondered how many of them were half-bloods, muggle-borns (he dared not think the other term, they probably wouldn't like it).

His father used to tell him that those who weren't pure blooded were unnatural. That they were little more than animals and loved to eat children who misbehaved. He'd never really believed that, but as he looked up and down the Ravenclaw table (blue, blue, blue) a cold feeling swam through his guts and he was reminded of the time he was sure that something monstrous lived under his bed. His mother had held him and his father told him he had killed it (but he wasn't a murderer, he wasn't, wasn't, wasn't).

But they weren't there to help him. Blue didn't care about money or being pure. Blue was knowledge and knowing and remembering a time that no one talked about.

But he wasn't blue (wasn't, wasn't, wasn't) and he didn't know. He'd barely been alive. His parents hadn't told him. They didn't talk about that time.

He wanted to go home.  
***

The next day he woke up hungry having forgotten to eat the night before. It had been very hard to fall asleep. Apparently, he'd insulted one of his dorm mates, Stephen Cornfoot, on the train. He couldn't remember doing it. Back on the train seemed like a lifetime ago. A time when he knew he'd have the backing of his father's name and childhood friends. A time when he was going to be a Slytherin, not a Ravenclaw. Green, not blue. Malfoys were always Slytherin, always. 

Was he still a Malfoy? (Blue, blue, blue.) Maybe not.

His hunger had him up before any of the boys sleeping around him, their blue curtains drawn closed. He didn't want them to see him, not that he was scared (blue and scared and blue). He showered and dressed in under fifteen minutes. Normally it took him longer, but he couldn't bring himself to care about his hair.

The common room was empty so he noticed it better. It had been so hard to see anything the night before. He'd only been able feel. (Blue, blue, blue.) The walls were covered in blue silk and the windows were larger than they had any reason to be. The ceiling was charmed to look like the nighttime sky. It twinkled down at him. The stars seeming much friendlier than any of his follow Ravenclaws (but they weren't really his fellows, he wasn't really a Ravenclaw).

His eyes found a constellation long and twisting. Draco. But that didn't mean he belonged in that tower. That dragon had only been placed in the sky after it was killed. Its body banished to the night. That thought almost had him running out of the common room and down the stairs, but he managed to make his feet move slowly because Malfoy's didn't panic (where anyone could see).

No one else was in the Great Hall when he sat at end of the Ravenclaw table closest to the door. A diligent house elf was quick to bring out some food. The elf didn't ask him what he wanted, but he supposed that didn't matter. All the food tasted like ash and disappointment and fear.

"Starting your day early, Mr. Malfoy?"

Draco blinked as he recognized the stern voice from the night before. Professor McGonagall. He hadn't even heard her approach. Eventually he nodded. Draco Malfoy. He was Draco Malfoy.

She nodded, a smile touching her lips. "Can't say I don't approve. Just remember to get enough sleep."

Draco just stared at her mute. 

But his eyes must of said something (his father's never did). He saw her face cloud in what he thought was concern. "Everything is alright for you in your house?" she asked hesitantly like she knew. She probably did.

Blue, blue, blue.

"It's fine." Because Malfoys didn't ask for help. Maybe he would have (Adam's angry blue eyes flashed through his mind) but that wasn't an option. Not anymore.

Her lips flattened like she wanted to say something, but then she shook her head. "Well, if you're sure," a careful pause, "You should go see Mr. Flitwick and get your schedule. His office is on the seventh floor. Most students won't be down here for an hour yet."

He just nodded and kept his eyes away from her face. She could see and he didn't like it.  
***

Flitwick was nice and cheerful and Draco knew his father wouldn't have liked him. Lucius Malfoy didn't think it seemly to be so openly jovial. Draco couldn't force himself to mind.

He had History of Magic in the first morning block and double Charms in the afternoon. That didn't sound too bad. He thought perhaps he would make it through the day.

As he climbed the stairs back to the common room he marveled at the amount of steps there were. There hadn't seemed so many going down and he didn't remember walking up them at all the night before (someone had kindly kept him distracted the whole time by trying to trip him). He supposed he would be in great shape by the end of the year.

"What three letters make a man out of a boy?" 

Draco started and almost fell back down the stairs. Then he remembered. To get in he had to answer a riddle. He eyed the brass knocker warily.

He frowned and ran the question through his head again. _'What three letters make a man out of a boy?'_ What _did_ make a boy a man? His father said men were proud and strong and contained, but all those words had more than three letters. Both boy and man were three letters long. Did that mean anything?

What three letter words did he know?

Boy. Man. Sad. Cry. Blue-wait that wasn't right. Not. Fun. Son. Dad. Mom. Home-that had four letters. Toe. Eat. Ash. Elf. Hat. Blue, blue, blue.

Lie.

He was getting a headache. It wasn't fair. It shouldn't be happening. He didn't belong there. He didn't want to. (What good would that do?)

The knocker, thinking Draco had forgotten the question, repeated itself, but that didn't matter. He didn't know. He wasn't blue and it should know. (Maybe it did.)

Cat. Bat. Dog. Rat.

Blue.  
***

No one let him in and he missed both History of Magic and Charms, He didn't go to lunch or dinner. And he did not solve the riddle. Everyone who entered would whisper their answer so he couldn't hear them. He sat on the stairs and didn't cry. Malfoys didn't do that (didn't, didn't, didn't).

It was cold and dark when Flitwick found him sitting there and told him the answer. 'Age' he said, 'Age is what turns a boy into a man.' His eyes full of understanding (because he was blue and he should know).

Draco curled into a ball on his bed and wished he was older. Then maybe everything wouldn't be so hard.


	2. December 1991

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Luna's backstory is a little modified. Hope that's okay.

Silver.

It was everywhere. Her cloths, her arms, her hair.

Silver.

She didn't understand, but she didn't mind having it to wonder about. She'd rather think about it than-She'd rather think about it.

"Daddy, why am I all silver?"

Her dad was holding her very tightly. They were sitting on the floor in front of the fireplace. The flames made the silver turn and twist. (Like a dance that wasn't fun.) The way he held her didn't allow her to see his face, but she didn't mind. Daddy's face was-Daddy's face was.

Daddies don't cry.

"Don't worry, Lunabird. It will go away," he said, but his voice was wrong. It reminded her of an empty jar. And jars should be full of things. They should.

She frowned. That wasn't a very Daddy like answer. Daddy always answered her questions, but he hadn't. She had asked why and he had said it would go away.

But it wouldn't. Not really.

Luna looked at her hand. It looked like she'd dipped it into silver paint. (That would be such a silly thing to do, her- She always said Luna was silly.) Luna shuddered.

"Daddy, who was that man?"

His beard had been long and silver (but not as silver as her). He'd touched his wand to her head and told her-and told her.

"You'll meet him next year." But that didn't answer her question.

Silver.

She couldn't be sure (nothing was sure), but the man (she would meet him next year) he'd pulled something out of her head. Long and stringy and silver. It reminded her of a story she'd heard somewhere, but she couldn't really remember.

Everything was a fuzzy silver haze. How did silver get into eyes? (Silver eyes like an empty jar, tears.) Silver as a young unicorn. Her-She took care of the unicorns behind their house. She took care of them. Her-

"Daddy, can we go see the unicorns?" Unicorns understood everything. They felt everything and they'd always play with her when she felt lonely. (But who could feel lonely with a dad and-with a dad?) The unicorns could help. The unicorns-

"The unicorns have gone away." Gone away, gone away. Away, away, away. (Like a song she didn't want to sing.)

And the Silver, it would go away. 

She could see shadows dancing around her so she closed her eyes. (Surely the darkness would also go away.) The insides of her eyelids were Silver.

"Daddy, when is," everything was wrong, "When is Mama coming home?"

She should be there too. Mama, Daddy and Lunabird. That's what they were. What they'd always be. Mamas weren't like unicorns and Silver (and darkness). They weren't supposed to go away. They were like daddies and jars filled with things (good things, happy things, with sliver). Mamas didn't- Mamas didn't.

"You'll see her again someday."

But that didn't answer her question.


	3. April 1992

April 1992

 

_Silver._

_It was alive and it was coming (for him). The air around him became cold with dread._

_The Silver was coming (and it was death and wrong and evil)._

_The hallway he was running down was long (long, long, long and endless), but he kept running anyway (because if it caught him-)_

_He turned right down another hallway And left at the next. It wasn't until he collapsed at his mother's feet in her favorite sitting room, that he realized the endless hallways had been familiar and that he'd been running through the corridors of his childhood home._

_Silver, silver, silver. Even as his mother bent down to hold his face in her soft (and gentle) hands, he could feel it getting (close and closer). The Silver was hungry._

_"Mum, it's coming," he managed to gasp out. He felt so tired and scared and cold. He needed his mother to tell him that it would be alright._

_But she didn't. She just smiled at him softly. "Goodbye, Son," she said, before she simply faded from view._

_"Mum!" But she was gone (forever and ever). He started to run again. He could feel the Silver draw nearer, but he just ran faster (faster, faster, faster). He didn't want it to catch him. (Who would?)_

_He came across a staircase and took it two, three, five steps at a time. The hallway at the bottom was like all the others, but he knew where he was running to. His father's study was on this floor. Surely his father would know what to do._

_Left at Great Aunt Silvia's Portrait, right at the ugly, green vase. He was almost there (almost, almost, almost). He was almost-_

_The world turned itself over and he found himself knocked flat on his back. His father standing in front of him. His gray (cold and sharp and far, far away) eyes boring into him._

_"F-father," he stammered as he scrambled to his feet._

_He could still feel the Silver closing in (it was making the most terrible sound), but his father seemed indifferent and unworried, so Draco tried to feel either emotion (he tried to)._

_"Son, when I die, everything that I own will be yours. Not just the Manor and the Malfoy fortune. Everything, our family's honor, debts, past deeds. You will inherit everything."_

_Draco took a step back from his father. The words 'inherit everything' ringing in his head like doom. "Father why can't I come home?"_

_But his father just smiled (curved his lips) at him with his grey (and hollow and empty) eyes. "Passed from blood to blood Draco. That's how things are. There's no escaping the truth."_

_Lucius Malfoy wasn't going to save him either. (No one could save him.)_

_And Draco knew it was a dream. He'd known all along (because he wasn't allowed to go home, mothers didn't just disappear, fathers never failed)._

_The Silver was almost upon them. Everything was turning painfully bright. It was burning (burning, burning, burning) Silver. And then his father was burning too (burning Silver). He didn't seem to notice, his eyes remained fixed on him (like they were telling a story that nobody knew). He didn't seem to feel as the fire engulfed him and burned him all up (all gone, all away, all gone away)._

_But Draco could feel it. He could feel it as the fire traveled up his father's legs and arms (as it curled around his heart). Draco felt it for him as he watched his father burn (burn Silver). Burn, burn, burn away._

_It made the most dreadful noise (it made Draco's blood run cold and his heart hesitate to beat). And then his father was no more and the Silver was there. It was looking at him, burning (knowing everything no one wanted to know)._

_It looked at him and smiled._

***

 

There was something comforting about the nighttime sky. Sure the stars moved, but they were always there (even during the day, even when they weren't in sight). Draco liked that about them. And when he couldn't sleep at night he would go to the Astronomy Tower and look at the stars and try to remember all their stories. He wasn't always calmed by these stories (there was plenty of blood, death and sadness in the sky), but he was always distracted. Distracted was better than nothing.

He wasn't even distracted though. His dream lingered behind his eyes, just out of sight (waiting, smiling, hungry). He tried to trick his body into thinking he was relaxed. He had laid down, with his hands behind his head (but his hands were shaking and his breaths were too quick). The moon was absent from the sky, but he could see Silver glimmering in the corner of his eye (reminding him that it wouldn't go away).

The soft crack from behind him might have alarmed him, but he knew there was only one person who could apparate in Hogwarts, Albus Dumbledore, and Draco had no reason to fear him.

"Ah, Mr. Malfoy, enjoying the stars?" the headmaster of Hogwarts asked in his normal cheery way. Draco's father always said that Dumbledore was a fool. He shuddered. Thinking of Lucius Malfoy made him think about-

He shrugged from his position on the ground. He did not greet him. He didn't even look at the old man.

"I hear things have been difficult for you. I heard that there was an incident with some of the first year Slytherins just yesterday."

Draco kept his face indifferent.

Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle were followers. They couldn't be held any more accountable for their actions than water flowing through a pipe (mindless and cold). They didn't mean anything when they knocked him to the ground or when they spat on him. They were just doing as they were told. (Did anyone ever do anything else?)

And he couldn't fault Blaise Zabini for directing them either (for he was just doing as he was taught). Draco was their enemy because he was different (blue, blue, blue) and different was not to be tolerated. Draco was taught that too (by his father and by his mother). 

Draco didn't try to explain any of that to Dumbledore. He was sure it would be a waste of time and he was too tired to care. He shrugged again. "I'm fine," he said. Just like he'd told McGonagall all those months ago (like he told Flitwick every time the man asked, like he told himself. Malfoy's were always fine, great, good, just fine after all). "Just looking at the stars."

He heard the man make a low humming noise, but he refused to look at him (refused to). He wasn't up in the Astronomy Tower to see an old man with a long beard.

"I see. Well, it's still regrettable that these things happen. I will strive to make sure they don't."

Draco laughed at him (cold and mirthless). "Strive all you want. Regret all you want. I don't care." He closed his eyes for a long moment. "And I certainly won't notice." 

He heard the sharp intake of breath, but his words could not be denied. Dimly, from the corners of his mind, he could hear his mother scolding him for being rude (his father hating him for being weak).

"I'm sorry you feel that way," the old fool eventually said.

Draco was sorry that it _was_ that way.

Sorry, sorry, sorry.

(But sorry didn't do anything.)

Draco maintained his silence and smiled (just a little) when heard the old fool disapparate away.

Without any conscious thought he searched for and found his namesake snaking through the sky. There were so many stars in the sky, but Draco wondered if the Draco in the sky was lonely. After all, there were plenty of people at Hogwarts and Draco felt much more alone than he ever had at Malfoy Manor with just his parents and house elves for company.

He tried to rest a little, before the sun showed up, but he couldn't relax (the Silver was burning inside his eyelids). He settled for staring blankly at where he knew the moon should be (thinking about going home and seeing his parents again, and making sure they hadn't disappeared).

That the Silver hadn't taken them from him.


End file.
